All For Love
by Third Time Charm
Summary: As an individual, all that she was remembered by was that she was one of the few that was killed by Voldemort himself. There is a person behind the tales, though-and a life that Dorcas Meadows chose to live. This is her choice. This is her story.
1. Chapter 1: Determination

**Title:** All For Love

**Rated:** Mature for Character Death

**Parings: **Sirius Black and Dorcas Meadows

**Timeline:** It's a few years after the Marauders have graduated from school.

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_"You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else." _

_–A. Einstein_

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"It's better if we keep this close."

That voice, that echoingly familiar statement brought a small smile to her face. Her face? Oh, yes. Her. Dorcas Meadows. Cass. Former Gryffindor. Order of the Phoenix member. Duelist extraordinaire. Curse-master.

Many things, Dorcas Meadows was, many things, she could be called. Unformidable was not one of them. Standing at a lithe five-foot eleven, the woman's physique perched at an equal level of many men, many of them those who would love to believe her inferior. Poise. Grace.

In a word; perfection.

Even now, she was untouched, even now she remained unphased. Standing at the edge of a movement from which no one could turn back upon, Cass Meadows was infuriatingly stoic, as ever. It was a face that many had become familiar with. A small, stilted half-smile quirked over her lips, a sardonic brow raised in lackadaisical inquiry. To all appearances, the girl seemed utterly indifferent to her surroundings.

A mistake that no one would ever have the chance to make twice.

On the heels of such a thought, the lithe figure wheeled on a heel-ducking an inconvenient tree branch that nearly tried to swipe at her cheek as she moved to the side. A short (and utterly merciless) laugh broke past the pearlescent lips that seemed a beacon of such sweet innocence.

"Stupify," the girl hissed under her breath.

A bright, blinding flash of red light traveled a short distance and proceeded to illuminate a figure for the briefest moment before it slumped to the ground.

Indeed, an angel Cass Meadows might have been.

Not, however, one of peace.

Justice. Vengeance. The day of reckoning had long since past. The lines had been drawn in the sand and where the blonde stood had been made infuriatingly clear from her insolent disrespect to her family-pure blood to the bone, the thoughts included. She had, Dorcas's mother concluded, fallen into the same trap that that black boy had gotten caught in. Willful disobedience was not to be tolerated.

Instead, however, of bowing to pressure and ceding to the apparent 'inevitable', Dorcas Katherine Meadows did what she was known to do.

She broke the rules.

Defied convention.

In a life that was a short twenty two years long, Cass had never once done the easy thing. Never once taken the shortcut.

As obscurely wrong as it had been, Dorcas had once been associated with Evan Rosier (now, known Death Eater). She had dated him, befriended him.

Merlin, she had even kissed him.

Even in the face of opposition, in the face of disapproval (albeit not from her parents) from those she loved the most, the girl had endeavored to pursue that relationship she thought had been so very sacred. And in the end, when one Evan Rosier had tried to consume her, mind body and soul-the girl hadn't done the 'easy' thing, and let him.

She hadn't done the 'simple' thing and been a passive participant in selling her soul.

Oh, no. Even now, the memory of the scene was enough to bring a smile to nearly every face of the Order-even those who hadn't even been in school at the time.

Indeed, such a dressing-down was a legendary thing, a story doomed to be repeated.

The imperious Evan Rosier? Oh, yes. He had been defied-openly. She had checked him at every turn in one dramatic confrontation. And in the end, it hadn't been her ego, nor her reputation that lay shattered beyond near-repair.

Dorcas Meadows was a survivor.

A survivor that did not sacrifice her integrity. Perhaps more than anything, that was what made the girl.

"I will not!" Dorcas breathed quietly, "I would rather die for a world worth living for, than live in a world where I survive. What does that say about me if I weren't? I want to live, yes. Dying is the easy part. It's surviving after, that's the hard bit."

Courage and strength. It took courage to die-but it took true strength, of character and will, to survive. And so, the girl fought. She fought for a world where there would be no death, no senseless persecution. She fought for a tomorrow worth having, and she lived for a world worth being in.

It was all she knew.

And she became good at it. Too good, those who looked back after, could say. That biting tongue became a deft hand at provoking the opposition into a temper, sending them floundering, fumbling, making mistakes.

And as, on any field of battle, a mistake meant a loss.

Cool. Calm. Collected. Poised.

Dorcas Meadows seemed unphased by what she had become. A weapon, it's edge razor sharp. Unwieldy and ungainly for the untested hand, Cass Meadows under poor direction would have been a disaster. However, no one knew the girl better than herself. No one understood her capability, her capacity to endure.

And so, she did. One battle after a next, the blonde figure had become an image etched into the minds of those who stood at her side-or across that line in the sand. Taking the blows, acknowledging the pain and then dismissing it, Cass was nothing to be laughed at. For whoever thought that the fragile-looking girl (and she was just that, at barely twenty two years) was something to be taken lightly, ended up indisposed.

Not dead-rarely, dead.

For all her belief in her cause and her tenacity to survive, Dorcas Meadows did have some limits.

Long ago, she had decried those who murdered senselessly, for any cause. And those who killed indiscriminately in defense were really, no better than those who murdered senselessly for their own cause.

Oh, no. Death was something to be avoided at all costs.

However, that wasn't to say that the girl didn't have blood on her hands.

She was no innocent. Cass had taken lives, had gone to sleep at night with the weight of the knowledge that somewhere, a mother, father, wife, husband-or even, in one instance, children, mourned the passing of someone beloved.

Blood called to blood, regardless of whose blood it was.

It did not matter, death eater or Order member. Muggleborn or pure blood. Blood, once spilt, did not separate on that hallowed ground upon whence it fell. And in that moment, the truth lay bared to the bones. They were not so very different, after all.

Someone, somewhere, would always mourn when a life was taken.

Always.

"Except," Cass muttered ruefully, "for me."

Oh, certainly, she would be missed. How could she not? She was a daughter (albeit to pure-blood gits). She was a sister (to a woman who married and had a child of her own. A family that came first). She was a friend (to a redhead who had married the love of her life and born her own child. To men who fought as they lived-recklessly and on the edge, without regard for life and limb. To those who had allegiance to someone more important than she).

Every single person she had ever loved in some way, had loved her back.

And only, Cass thought with a smile, one mistake.

"One regret."

If she died-today, tomorrow, next week-what would she miss? There was so much to be said, so much that she had always been to afraid to say.

And yet, this was not the time, the girl realized with a chilling realization, flicking her wand (the sheer force of the unspoken spell a testament to the witch's own talents) and neatly dispatching another foe who had thought that the pretty blue eyes had hidden a head without a brain.

There would be a time for regrets.

There would always be a time for mourning.

But now? Now, it was time to fight-fight for a promise, for a tomorrow that was worth living for.

And that was worth the price, to die for.

Yet, Cass could not help but wonder. Was there ever a right time for regrets? Was there ever a 'good time' to wonder about what had been?

'Don't live in the past', everyone had said that. 'You couldn't have changed it if you had been there', friends consoled when someone loved, was lost or hurt.

Couldn't have made a difference.

Only knowledge. Only hindsight. Only they could have changed the actions, the outcomes. And the price for that was far too high for anyone to pay. Even in a Wizarding world, there were some decrees that were simply not worth breaking.

Some things, Dorcas Meadows had long since acknowledged, even she would not pay the price for.

And yet, it seemed to be the truth. For the things that mattered, there was never a convenient time. Love was an inconvenience to the upteenth degree. Compassion. Friendship. Trust. Faith. Hope.

For that, Cass could only lament, could only mourn the things that could have been, but would never be. The time was gone, far passed. There was no family in her life. She was not, the blonde acknowledged with a wry smile, born for that future.

There was a different path lined out for the twin with the hair the color of sunlight-wrought silk and eyes the color of the shadows of the moon.

It was no less an important path, no easier future than that of her sister, Alice Meadows nee Longbottom.

Daughter. Sister. Mother.

A family.

For a moment, bitter envy coursed through her veins. A life she wanted, had so desperately craved. Gone. She was not dead, Cass acknowledged. But there was a very good chance that she would be, before this entire debacle ended. Sister fighting father, brother fighting brother, cousins facing down across the field-would it never end?

Suffice to say, the entire thing was a mess. The light of spells flickered through the trees and the occasional, sharp crack told her that someone(s), somewhere, felt the need to apparate to hie off to safety, lick their wounds to fight another day. It was a pitched battle, the girl calculated with an unwavering eye.

And yet, they would prevail this time. It was not always a sure thing-the green recruits from the graduates were as much a burden as a blessing, Cass thought with a short grin, flicking a wordless spell that rendered someone immobile (a someone who was very near to casting some sort of presumably perilous hex on one of her rookies). So reckless, so determined to fight for good-for the world they wanted to imagine, existed.

Dorcas Meadows didn't fight like that.

She knew better.

Cool. Assessing. Calculating. It was the way to survive. Never allow the temper to be lost, Cass knew (and as a hothead herself, struggled with frequently). Never fall prey to a bluff (or not, as it were-having had a severed hand delivered to her upon occasion, Dorcas knew that sometimes, the death eaters weren't lying).

"I'm sorry," the girl whispered softly, words falling like dead weight into the murky pre-dawn light. The chill of autumn was upon them, but it didn't seem to affect the girl.

So, so sorry, Cass realized, not for the first time. There was so much that she hadn't done. So many mistakes she had made.

"So many things I never said."

Life was never just, never fair-and rarely compassionate. Stories such as Lily and James Potter were rare. A love that lasted, one that was true. It was enviable, and those who knew the two well could only smile.

It was not testament to a miracle.

Moreso, it was testament to two miraculous people who believed. Believed in each other, more than themselves. It was a strength that Cass wondered if she would ever have.

And somehow, the answer-the truth-of the matter was..

No.

It was not for her.

"I'm sorry."

So sorry. So very, very sorry for being so jealous, Alice. Two twins-one light, one dark. One, for so many years, basking in the glow of parental approval and the other, so easily fading into the background. Impulsive and reckless alongside observant and precise.

And yet-so, so very envious. So jealous, the one who shone so bright.

An apology that would never be voiced, regrets for those years of long unintentional neglect that Dorcas Meadows had been involved in by the hands of her parents.

All the words that she had never said, the respect and admiration that Cass had always held for Alice-the untouchable esteem that no one else could ever hope to match.

The things that Cass had never told her.

Love. All those years of love, and as the time progressed, the secrets that Cass had kept from Alice had accumulated to a weight upon Dorcas Meadows' shoulders.

For years, the two had been inseparable. Even as they had found their own friends, Alice and Cass were unique to each other. They were hardly identical-one light and one dark, one kind and one remarkably cruel.

One forgiving and the other, utterly relentless.

More than anything, they were polar opposites of the other, barring a few exceptions.

More than anything, they completed each other.

Without Alice, there could have been no Dorcas Meadows.

And everything that Cass was, she owed it to the sibling that would never hear those words of praise, of gratitude-or of love.

"I'm sorry."

Friendships forsaken. Relationships, lost.

Of misjudgment, of thinking too quickly and acting too slow. Of maligning the names of individuals who had done no wrong.

James Potter would never hear that heartfelt apology, would never know the regret that Dorcas had harbored for long years, even after graduation, of the way she had treated the boy.

The cruelty of children knew no bounds, and she had been no exception.

Perhaps it had been envy, perhaps it had been fear. The knowledge that there, stood a boy whose parents adored him regardless of the choices he made, supported even his friends (as was shown by the hospitality-and more than that, the love-they had given Sirius Black when he was disowned).

More than that, it had been his ability to love. Deeply, without restraint.

For six years, he had pursued Lily Evans. For six years, his heart had been hers.

And he would never know the respect that Dorcas Meadows had accredited him for that.

He loved as he lived.

And he would never know how much Cass wished she could have done the same.

"I'm so very, very sorry."

Lily Evans, the witch that knew no equal, the friend like no other.

The human being beyond compare.

For seven years, they had lived in the same quarters, eaten the same food, breathed the same air. They had consoled each others' tears, had been the solid pillar of support when the world around them was falling apart.

And yet-Dorcas Meadows lived with the knowledge that her best friend had never, ever been fully hers.

A heart that big could not belong to one alone. Could not, really.

And honestly-what claim did one single girl, forgotten by time and overlooked by history, have on the woman who could change the world if she so chose?

A friendship that had gone both ways-both good and bad, could not have ever been replaced by anything else. Between the two girls, there was something that the rest of the world couldn't touch.

And yet, between marriage and a child, that unbreakable bond had frayed and unraveled.

Lily Evans Potter would never hear how very sorry her old friend was for that state of affairs.

Never hear how much the girl cherished those hours of conversation, the hugs and the smiles-and even the tears.

"I'm so sorry."

The things she could have changed, all that she should have done differently, Dorcas was filled with regret. Maybe he wouldn't have become a death eater if it had ended differently, maybe her relationship wouldn't have fallen apart if Cass had been more supportive.

Lore, Addi-the ravenclaw duo that had frequently eyed the blonde as if Cass had grown a second head, spouting ever stranger comments in the midst of deep philosophical comments. The two that she had grown inordinately fond of.

Her friends.

The jokes she had made, the things she had teased them for-the hours spent laughing that she wouldn't trade for the world.

As much as her friends were intelligent, were savvy to the world, they would never hear the truth in how much she cherished them.

Would never know that they were her world.

Her whole world.

"Oh, Merlin." Breathing softly to control the sharp pressure in her eyes, a hint of tears-of fatigue or emotion as the battle waged into the coming dawn, Dorcas wished she could find a corner to sit and weep.

"I've wronged you. So very, very badly. I'm so, so sorry-if only you could know."

Her one true mistake. Her one true regret.

And the one apology she wished she could have said, to him-to the world.

The love she had, the one she had walked away from. A heart she might have broken simply to keep her own intact. And yet, every day without him was a day that the world was a little less bright, a little less wonderful.

A life without Sirius Black in it was not one, Dorcas Meadows had realized, worth having.

Of all the girls he had ever 'loved'-and he himself said, he loved women. Loved them all-she was the one who had held his heart. Instead of replacing it with hers, though, the girl had fled. No, not in the instant. Not even the day after, waking up feeling, for the first time since the bloody war had begun, secure. Safe.

Cherished.

Standing on the edge of something that would have swallowed her-swallowed him-the girl had balanced it. Cass had maintained her integrity, her own personal truth and had loved as she did it. Yet, when the knife came to its' point-and the bones of the matter lay bare, the girl was left staring.

It hadn't been that complicated, she realized in retrospect.

He wasn't a boy, and she wasn't a girl. He wasn't the insensitive prankster, and she wasn't the sarcastic bitch.

He was a man who had lost his friends, fought against what was once his family.

She was a woman with blood on her hands and murder tagged along her title.

And in that moment-she had loved him.

But she had left.

And he would never, ever know how sorry she was for that.

"My one regret."

Tears tracked silently down her cheeks, from stress or emotion one couldn't be certain. Yet, even as the sun rose to cast a quiet, early glow to the day, silence reigned in what had been a bloody field of confrontation for what felt to be a lifetime.

With sunlight shining fair upon her golden locks, Dorcas Meadows collapsed against a thick, sturdy tree, thankful for the solid comfort of the rough touch of the bark.

Swiping a shaking hand-nerves, she wondered? or fatigue?-over wearied eyes, Dorcas Meadows closed her eyes with a slight smile affixed to her lips, the sardonic brow lilted over shut eye, golden lashes fanned delicately against the purple stains of sleeplessness, highlighting the vulnerable frailty of the delicate form.

Just one moment.

Just a bit, she thought with a wry twist of the lips. Just a few moments more of stillness before returning back to Headquarters, where it would be all impersonal business. Bodies, corpses-prisoners, questions.

Just a few more seconds to mourn the past.

Recall the memories she cherished.

Just a little bit longer.

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A/N:

This is an old, (_ooold_) story of mine that I've written about the character Dorcas Meadows. It implies (and outright states) at points that she's involved with Sirius Black. This character has always struck my fancy. All we know about her is that she was killed by Voldemort himself, and that she was placed next to Sirius in the team photo of the order "way back when". What sort of person would someone have to be to be such a threat that Voldemort had to kill them himself?  
This story is an attempt to answer that. I love this character-and on a site called Roses in Hand (z10dot invisionfree dotkom /rih) she's my darling. This was inspired by roleplay scenarios and late night discussions I had with the other admin, Lisa. I hope you enjoy this short story!


	2. Chapter 2: Remembrance

_"There are stars who's light only reaches the earth long after they have fallen apart. There are people who's remembrance gives light in this world, long after they have passed away. This light shines in our darkest nights on the road we must follow."_

_-The Talmud_

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When Dorcas Meadows had died, no one would have ever thought that it would have ended the way it did. Sirius Black, imprisoned. Lily and James Potter-dead. Harry, an orphan without a Godfather to his name. Peter Pettigrew, blown to bits in the street. The Longbottoms, only shortly thereafter the tragedy confined for the rest of their lives to St. Mungo's for dementia.

And Harry James Potter was removed from the Wizarding world for the next eleven years. Eleven years people talked, people wondered what had happened to the boy.

It was not altogether surprising that so many other things were forgotten in the passage of time. No one talked of Gideon and Fabian Prewett. No one spoke of the McKinnons' or of the Bones' deaths.

No one would have ever realized that it would be nearly fifteen years before someone would hazard to recall the tall blonde, her arm haphazardly slung about the waist of one, Sirius Black. No one could have ever believed that all anyone would ever say of her was "That's Dorcas Meadows, Voldemort killed her personally" and then it simply went straight to "Sirius, when he still had short hair".

One sentence. One statement.

A lifetime of strength, courage, tenacity and heartbreak, forgotten.

No one remembered Dorcas Meadows. Those who could, if they chose to, had long since banished her memory into some dark, forgotten corner of their minds where the throbbing ache of loss could not reach them.

Molly Weasley would remember her from time to time, on those misty mornings that the girl had loved so well. The blonde walked in the yard that the Prewetts had so fastidiously cared for, hand in hand with Fabian. Later, the details would be dimmed. The dew that frosted her silver hair to gold and dusted her cheeks into a glow was lost, the gleam in her grey eyes was forgotten.

Molly Weasley had a family, and had lost precious people of her own. Perhaps she could be forgiven for forgetting.

What then, of Remus Lupin?

Perhaps.

He, of any left alive, might have the claim to knowing her best. He, who had consoled her in her tears and laughed at her joy. But of his best memories of her-Dorcas Meadows bringing in a tray of food and drinks to a laughing Sirius and a quiet, but joyous Remus, surrounded by James and Peter, were emblazoned in the man's memories. Of course, how could they not?

The glistening flat that Sirius Black had come into on his own, the easy rumble of masculine laughter, the smells that while were not completely reminiscent of the Gryffindor Dorm, were so eerily familiar. Remus Lupin? He remembered Cass Meadows, in his own way.

But to remember her--was to remember Sirius. And anyone would have been dwarfed by his presence.

In time, Remus Lupin would forget the peculiar silver gleam to her eyes that the girl got whenever she found something particularly entertaining. He would fail to recall the exact note of her laughter, the way her lips quirked in her joy.

In time he, too, would forget.

Alastor Moody would not recall the girl's unusual ability to realize when something was wrong with another person. He would never remember the way that Cassie Meadows somehow quietly materialized with a cup of tea whenever someone was distressed, a precious piece of Honeydukes' fudge pressed into their hand.

Mad-Eye would not remember her humanity, the way she was loathe to shed blood, the way that she went out of her way (and sometimes placed herself into harm) to resolve things as peaceably as she could.

He would only ever remember the fighter. The duelist, the witch that had no equal out on that killing field. Alastor Moody would never know the way her laughter jangled through the air, infectious in its nature.

A decade after her death, he could not even remember her voice, only the spells she had used so fearlessly to further their cause.

Those who knew Dorcas Katherine Meadows were, by and large, dead. James Potter. Lily Evans. Alice and Frank Longbottom might have been dead, for all they could recall.

Though, from time to time a nurse would quietly confide in an elderly woman that the cheery patient was talking of a face in her dreams again, one that watched over her.

Sirius Black and Augusta Longbottom were the only ones who remembered.

"Are you certain?" There was something unnatural about Dorcas Meadows being so uncertain, so insecure in her actions. Looking down (for indeed, standing at five foot eleven, the girl couldn't help but peer down at the elderly woman) at Missus Longbottom, there was something akin to shock in her eyes. "You...you wouldn't want to wear it, instead?"

The severe countenance of the matron scowled at the blonde. "Come now, girl," she barked, "don't waste my time. Put it on, won't you? It is your sister's reception-and my son's-and I will be damned if I see anyone as plain as you there!"

Cass Meadows was dogged into submission. Somehow, the quietly understated robes of a soft dove grey had been transfigured into indigo and red, gathering under her bust before flowing freely to the floor. A slit had been cut in the side and the hem, which had been tightened about her legs, whispered about her ankles as she walked. The lowered neckline revealed an enticing amount of flesh but it was here that Augusta Longbottom showed her true colors.

A necklace of wrought silver, set with yellow diamonds settled against the soft curve of her collarbones, nestling just below the hollow of her throat. It was, even Cass recognized, a priceless piece.

"Thank you, Ma'am," the girl whispered softly, staring herself in the mirror. The wedding had come and gone. Cass Meadows stood (towering over everyone involved, really) at Alice's side. No other family members of the girls had attended. Perhaps, Cass thought in retrospect, that had been the severe woman's doing. "Thank you so very, very much." A timid smile was all that Cassie could offer in return to her kindness-and was shocked by what she gained in return.

"Don't," Augusta commented gruffly. "I'm not your mother, nor your mother in law. Calling me 'mother' would be odd-but you, girl," she paused, peering at the blonde intently. "You have purpose to you. Spine. I like that. Don't call me Ma'am. Augusta is my given name and it suits me, fine."

With grey eyes gleaming in silent appreciation, the younger of the Meadows twins had nothing to offer to her kindness. Silently, Cass wrapped an arm around Augusta Longbottom's waist and the two-so strangely similar-women quietly walked out to the terrace in stride.

Augusta Longbottom mourned, in the fourteen years that she had custody of Neville Longbottom. He was not-could never be-Frank. He has nothing of his parents in him, and perhaps it was a blessing.

That grand old woman had lost everything. A son, a daughter. A family. Friends. In her own mind and in her own heart, though, she had lost not two children-but three. For somewhere in the depths of their odd (and frequently unconventional friendship) Augusta Longbottom had managed to find it in her heart to love the blonde girl that no one else had managed to care for.

She, of anyone would recall the luxurious weight of those curled blonde locks. She could remember long hours of styling it before events when the girl showed up at her doorstep, pleading with her eyes as no verbal appeal could have ever done. Augusta Longbottom would remember the scars that slashed unforgivingly against her pale skin. For she was the one to heal the former gryffindor when the girl's pride would not allow her to beg aid of her twin, or her very closest of friends.

Augusta Longbottom mourned for her children-even though the only one of them that was in the grave, was the one not of her flesh and blood, not of her name. Somehow, though, the grand old woman's heart had been touched, just as surely as Dorcas Meadows had perished.

"To making your own messes," the masculine voice enthused dryly over the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation about him. "And," a female voice chimed in, "to not having to clean up anyone else's."

It was a strange sight, anyone would allow. A blonde head was tilted ever so gently towards a black one, that was hunched over the bar and a collection of empty shot glasses. It was quite the pair, Sirius Black and Dorcas Meadows, drowning their shared misery in rounds of shots. It ought to have been a joyous occasion, really. Lily Evans had long since moved in with James Potter. It was strange, Cass Meadows thought quietly. She should have been happy-her friend was becoming an honest woman.

It was only earlier that day that James Potter had told the world that Evans would be no more. "Merlin forbid," Cass had muttered teasingly, "that she inherits his ego along with his name!"

She was, Cass realized, slowly but surely losing everyone she had ever loved. Lily had moved in with James before Cass's nineteenth birthday-less than a year and a half after graduating from Hogwarts. Alice was with Frank more and more. She practically lived with him. Not, of course, that anyone would ever know. It seemed that particular fact was destined to remain a secret.

Of course, even Dorcas quietly confessed the reason behind it. Even she had no desire to cross Augusta Longbottom!

And yet, somehow the two individuals who seemed to both passionately adore and loathe one another (all in the very same moment) had found each other's company. It really was rather perplexing how quickly Sirius Black and Dorcas Meadows could change attitudes with one another. The light sniping with a honed edge was nothing that anyone wanted to come between. Even Alice Meadows and Lily Evans were never comfortable interfering.

Strange, then that they found solace in one another in such away.

There was comfort, Cass realized quietly, in resting her head against Sirius's shoulder, feeling his arm casually rest over hers. There was safety.

And in that moment the girl realized that she wasn't alone. Didn't need to be alone.

"Where," the girl mused softly under the tones of the bar, "did we go wrong?"

And Sirius Black had no answer to give.

What could he say? His own ego, attitude had inhibited him in possessing-and keeping-the one thing the man thought he could never have? That he was so downright petrified of her leaving-and leaving him, broken-that he chose to leave her shattered instead of taking the chance?

There were no words to say.

And indeed, somehow it seemed that both of them realized that. There was no need to discuss the past. Rehashing the debacle of their seventh year would have proven useless. Accusations didn't need to be thrown about so casually, so thoughtlessly. What was more important now, was peace. They were both losing their friends. They were not casualties of death, but victims of the war never the less. In the numbers of young witches and wizards who dared to exist in such a time of peril, hoards of them were eloping-left, right and center.

Their friends were no different.

Sirius Black would remember. How could he ever forget? The single soul who had given so freely and asked nothing in return, the girl who had the audacity to love him without anyone's consent but her own, had touched him. Irreparably, she had left Sirius Pollux Black a changed man.

Of anyone that had ever known her, had ever touched her life, it was Sirius that had somehow, meant the most. Certainly, Cass had loved others. She was a sister, a daughter. A friend, a confidant.

But to only one man was she a lover, was she loved by.

It was that one man who had only ever made the difference.

When Lily Evans was to be married to James Potter, when Alice Meadows was off every night with Frank Longbottom, the dark shadows of despair had crossed the threshold of the suddenly empty flat. The laughter that had survived there for years after graduating from Hogwarts was dead. There was a tantalizing echo of humor, lingering in the corners but the structure that once had collected life and vivacity now only gathered dust.

And in the very depth of her despair, throwing herself recklessly into fight after fight, returning to an empty, hollow flat that she couldn't stomach to call 'home', the very Blackest of angels seemed to save her soul.

And Dorcas Katherine Meadows could ask no more.

For in fifteen years, Sirius Black suffered behind bars with the knowledge that he was being punished for a crime he did not commit. He was liberated in a way, certainly, but no physical freedom could ever remove the knowledge of loss, and that one could have prevented its conception.

In fifteen years, Augusta Longbottom raised a grandson in the way that she had raised her son. And in those long seasons she was left with the realization-and the knowledge-that there would never be a man like Frank Longbottom ever again. He was truly the one who had defied the conventions on their family. He had taught the austere old woman how to laugh, had introduced rays of light into her life that she had never known.

And in fifteen years, Sirius Black mourned the passing of Dorcas Katherine Meadows. More than a friend, more than a lover-she was simply more. In a world that wanted nothing to do with her, she had dared to demand her own. In a life that she had asked nothing of, the girl had given everything to everyone she had ever loved. He remembered the flush of her cheeks when she laughed while she was inebriated. Sirius couldn't help but recall the way that she couldn't hold her liquor and became giggly and touchy the instant she passed her limit.

Sirius Black would never forget the way that her lips feathered over his jaw in silent consolation over losing those he loved.

She was not his-could never have been his, the boy thought. She was too much for the world to ever keep. They had no right to her.

But in those seasons that he had, Sirius Black had wanted for nothing more.

As for Augusta Longbottom? In her own little corner of the world, the elegant woman maintained a garden of himalayan lilies and white irises, remembering the simple joy that a young girl gained from charming them into prolonged beauty and plaiting them into her hair.

"It does not help to blame fate," Dorcas Meadows had said to them all. "It will just make you sad and bitter. Live every moment that you have and somehow, the future begins to look a little bit brighter."

Except fifteen years later, the light had long since bled from the world. That young woman's laughter had disappeared and the gleam in her eyes was being stolen from memory. In a decade and a half, no one could remember the quirk of her lips or the way she beamed at the most nonsensical of things.

Dorcas Meadows was forgotten. Somehow, though, it seemed that even now-beaming out of the picture frame clasped so tightly in Alastor Moody's hands-that she was not lost.

The world would forget what she had done. No one would recall who she was or how she had died. They could not steal though, from the hearts of those who had loved her-and had been loved by her, the knowledge that she had been here.

And that, it seemed, would be enough.

* * *

A/N: It goes without saying that, while I'm posting all of this story at once it was written over the span of a year as the inspiration struck. I've tried to make certain I don't contradict myself with the information, but if things overlap poorly that's why! If you catch something, please let me know! I'd appreciate it.

Anyway, this chapter addresses the issue of memory. Without memory, we are not human-but with it, we know pain. How can we balance what we choose to recal and what we wish to forget? We cannot control our memory any more than we can control the reactions of others around us. Sometimes, it is not the prospect of death that frightens someone-but the idea of being forgotten.

So let yourself remember.


	3. Chapter 3: Sacrifice

_"Sacrifice still exists everywhere, and everywhere the elect of each generation suffers for the salvation of the rest."_

_-Henri Frederic Amiel_

* * *

It was time, Dorcas Katherine Meadows concluded. Looking at the clock hanging on the wall-fifteen to eight-the girl realized that time had run out. Time had run out hours before. The hourglass on the desk at her hand had long since ceased to drop grains of sand on a pile, had stilled into becoming obsolete. The ink on letters written long hours ago, sealed with cobalt wax infused with silver pressed with the seal of a feline had long since dried, the seal, too, hardened. Rigid. There would be no more bending.

It was time to break.

Without a murmured word-simply a flick of the wand, the letters; ten of them in total, were wrapped in heavy duty brown paper. Kept together with an indigo ribbon of silk, the parcel was stroked fondly one last time. Folding one last note-not sealed, not treated with any of the reverence that the letters had been gifted-under the ribbon, the young woman's head bowed. How much life had changed in sixteen years. From a coltish eleven year old who hadn't a clue on how to unlock a door to this.

Dorcas Katherine Meadows had grown into every single promise that the young girl of old had sworn to become. Newly made twenty two-only two weeks past such a birthday, the woman had accomplished far more than anyone could ever hope to fathom. She was a lover, she was a friend. She was a sister and an aunt, even a godmother. Dorcas Meadows was a champion of a cause noble enough to die for-and she was a killer, relentless in her defense of those she loved. Cass Meadows was a woman that only a fool would hazard to cross.

It had been done before, of course. Bellatrix Lestrange had tried to take the golden crowned head from her shoulders. Severus Snape, too, had sought to bleed her dry and render her nonimportant. Death Eaters had come and gone through the five years of Dorcas Meadows being aware. Self aware, aware of the world around her. Cass could never be anyone's light. There was too much sorrow, too much destruction in her soul to ever burn through the shadows that they lived in.

Such a task was left to those better suited for it. Dorcas Meadows was no candle, she was no gleaming ray of optimism. This was the day of fruition, the day of judgment. The day of reckoning. Every single choice ever she had made, led her here. Every decision was a deliberate, conscious one. Cass Meadows had known what she was doing, even five years ago when she was naught but barely of age. She had become the shadow to fight the shadow. There were those who could burn so brightly as to scald it and send it running. They, too, burned her.

Sirius Black. James Potter, individuals with such tenacity, such absolute belief in their actions. There was no room for second guessing. There was no room for failure. Remus Lupin, his mind slaying a situation like no wand ever could, the quiet assessment rendering fatal results for those who dared oppose the lycan. Lily Potter, Alice Longbottom..they, too, were stars that shone far too brightly for any mortal to ever regard for far too long.

And yet even then, even now, even in the face of all that Dorcas had done to become the shadow to preserve those she loved from falling into it, there was the weighted realization that those stars who burned brightest, burned out most swiftly. What chance did they-did any of them-have? There was no future unless one could reconcile the past and that was something so few of them could actually manage to do.

Fabian and Gideon were gone. It had not been too long ago that the twins had slain death eaters, hand in hand. There was no pair quite as devastating in any situation. No one could hope to compare to the brothers, raised with the same mind, with the same heart. It was only fitting, then, that they had died together. That they were buried together in some marked grave far, far away from this place that had demanded they die. They were not the first-but they were the first that mattered. Dorcas Meadows, long, long ago had believed she would not survive. As a seventeen year old girl she had told a fifty year old man that she would be lucky to live to twenty, never you mind five and twenty. For a time, she had grown lax. For a time, Cass had become complacent. For a time, she had been happy. For a time, her life had been her own.

And then they had died, and she was reminded of who she was.

She was not Dorcas Meadows, mother. She was not wife, mother. She was only a misbegotten daughter, a forgotten twin. And on the weeks when they were lucky, loved, too. Alice Longbottom and Frank had married, had a son. Had Neville. Lily Evans had long ago become Potter and the insidious twit that was her husband had long since monopolized the redhead's time, never you mind her heart. It was not so much that Dorcas Meadows was not loved by the girl. Merely that she no longer was the only one who mattered. Did not matter quite as much. She was a parent, she was a wife-she was a mother, and a lover in the ways that Cass could never be. Alice, too, had somehow slipped beyond the reach of her own twin.

Where Fabian and Gideon stood together in life, and lay together in death, Dorcas Meadows had only ever walked on her own path. There was no one who could stand at her side, follow in her steps. No one could ever dare to try. There were things that the world would never know about her. There were secrets that they did not need to know.

They did not need to know that she had a choice. They did not need to know that Lucius Malfoy not so very long ago had come to her door-their door-when Sirius was gone, offering something so beautiful in its simplicity. Information for life.

And yet, that, too, was a farce. Information for her life-but the death of everyone that she had given her life up for. It was no question, Cass knew-and it was a fool's errand, as was clearly writ in the contemptuous face of the haughty blonde denoted as messenger. "You and I," Cass spoke softly, "Will see each other very, very soon. And if we do not, then I will wait. I will wait forever. And when we two are in the same place once more, you will pay for every mother's heart you have broken, every daughter's broken dream-and every shattered family you have created."

There were no more words to be spoken. It was easily understood-for every crime that Lucius Malfoy had committed, in some way, Cass had done it's equal. Oh, yes, the Ministry could justify murder as defense, defense of the muggles and of the families, protection for those who couldn't fight on their own. But to Dorcas Meadows, there was no question. She was as condemned as he, and they both knew it. For as certain as Dorcas Meadows would die, she too, was certain of her future in hell. And at least it meant she would wait an eternity if she had to, for each and every soul that had wrought hell upon earth, hell upon those undeserving families who had done no wrong. For the Boneses. Edgar Bones and his family, murdered-Amelia for having lost everything that she had loved, twice over. For the McKinnons, one of the greatest wizarding families of all time and for Fabian and Gideon, dead long before their time.

She would wait-and when they were all in the same playing field once more, Dorcas Meadows would extract the payment that was so desperately owed.

It was choice, not chance, that led them to where they stood. As certainly as Dorcas Meadows might have had a future with Voldemort and his Death Eaters had she so opted, it was as evident as the sun burning away the fog that she had chosen the more difficult of the paths. At every turn, she had been confronted with her choices-and had made them without wavering. And that, too, led her to where she stood now.

A single drop landed upon the brown paper of the package beneath her hand, warping it forevermore. There was simply one last thing to do. Pulling a ring-an opal the size of a pencil erasor set in gold, ringed by diamonds-off of her ring finger on her right hand, Dorcas Meadows stared at the piece of jewelry for the longest time. The ring sparked fire, the brilliant colors glittering by the candlelight. In the home, there was only one light-and it was the only one she needed. It cast into sharp relief the colors of the ring, the antique design that had been worn upon the hand of a Meadows for decades. And it was to a gold ribbon, silken and worn by age, that she tied it to. Reviving a charm five years old, so the ring would only be untied for it's proper owner, the girl tied the relic-both ribbon and ring-to the package that would give as many answers as she could.

And then, she vanished it to parts unknown. The note, though, had instructions that would be heeded.

_When you receive this parcel, please open it and send the letters as addressed. The Owls know what to do-and you have my thanks._

_-D.K.M._

The letters were sent, or at least, to the best ability she could have managed. To send them now would only invoke disaster. Company, she could have not. As much as it seemed she was expecting someone, there would be no warm reception for anyone that night-not that night, or any other after. There would be no easy resolution. Not now. Not ever.

For years, Dorcas Meadows had been a woman with a sign hanging over her head. Even as a rash seventeen year old, she had taken out two death eaters. Rank and untrained, the girl had something that proved a danger to all others around her. Instinct. Instinct that demanded she do what she most to ensure the survival of the things she held dear. It was the lioness that they faced in battle, the tawny creature so cunning in mind and courageous in heart. It was the one that would step before a flashing light, deflecting a curse from another rather than defend herself.

Of course, it was not the lion that Dorcas Meadows was. She could never hope to be so noble, so kingly. That image belonged to one, and one alone-and he had perished many months ago at Alastor Moody's hands. She would not mourn Evan Rosier. She could not even scrounge up a hint of weary triumph that she had gotten the last laugh, after all. He was dead and she-they-were still among the living. The couple that should never have been had defied the odds thrice over and even now with Voldemort seeking their deaths as vigorously as they could, Sirius Black and Dorcas Meadows were as together as individuals of their status would ever be.

However, there was something about Cass that seemed..distant. Even in the companionship of her friends, the girl was distant. There was something about her grey eyes that watched with such feline awareness, the smooth, glossy planes of her face that didn't betray her expression that seemed to separate her even from those she willingly called friend. Long ago, Lily Evans and Alice Meadows could have read the creases in her features, the wrinkles about her eyes. The years had passed, though, and while they had all aged gracefully-and hadn't grown apart, they had grown separately. To Alice and Lily, Cass could not begrudge them their joy. Nor could she even wish for something of the like for her own.

She knew the truth.

She was not born for the rose, nor the pearl.

It was the leopard to which her patronus took, a medium-large cat that lived alone and died alone. She had no partner, not in the way that Gideon and Fabian had fought side by side. She had no team as Edgar Bones, the auror, possessed.

In as many ways as they all had changed from those years in Hogwarts, some things never would. Dorcas Meadows walked a road that no one else could follow her down. Not even those she loved.

The girl was a branded soul. With the gold beacon of locks that betrayed her as no other could, with the lightning quick wand and an unsettling penchant to use wandless magic as easily as anyone had ever seen, the former gryffindor had become something of a legend. At least, for the callow youth that had graduated in the years after. The second years as they had been, then, could only recall the leggy woman striding down so recklessly the corridors with no regard for her surroundings, no care for the world. Little, Cass thought with a dry snort, did they know. The truth was something that didn't belong to the youth. Not youth as she had been at seventeen-and demanded, anyway. She had seen it, first hand, in that alleyway long years ago as Death Eaters sought to destroy Charlie Flentowock, all these years since passed.

And it was to he that her mind strayed for a moment, remembering fondly the man that had attempted to force her to question herself-her ideals, her beliefs. And it was that man who had only firmed her resolve into the woman she had become.

Even as he had passed on, there would always be another to take his place. The stories he left untold were a loss to the world, and never could Dorcas Meadows ever hope to fill prints such as his. And yet, she had done so none the less. There was no order member more loathed, more reviled than Dorcas Meadows. She seemed so reckless, so careless-it was a mockery to the death eaters who sought to kill her. It ought to have been easy, as the blonde seemed to crave death. And yet time and time again, they had been flouted by circumstance or had simply been outmatched.

At first, it had been Rabastan Lestrange alone. Later, it was Gibbon and Jugson. Even Macnair, Nott and Mulciber had not managed to trip her up. And while they had survived, they were the lucky ones. The casualties accredited to the youth were indeed, an impressive list.

And it was a blatant challenge to any who would dare follow the Dark Lord's orders. See her dead, no matter what the cost.

The price though, had gotten too high-the interest, too expansive. No longer were there any willing to pay it. It had been weeks since Dorcas Meadows had been of any use in a fight. They simply wouldn't engage. When it became known that the blonde virago was on the scene, everyone melted away as silently as they hadn't come. Prone to making a scene-always the Slytherin the girl thought with a mocking smirk, always the bully-when faced down with someone that wouldn't step aside, suddenly the spine that they had built up through the cowering of others left them wishing.

And so, Dorcas Meadows had survived-survived to this point, at any rate. The lives she saved, of muggles who would never know-of the reckless youth who sought to impersonate the careless elegance with which the girl moved, breathed and lived, of her friends that she loved-and would never know exactly how much, were a pale price to pay in comparison. The truth was, Cass knew even as her fingers absently stroked the naked finger that already felt awkward without the weight of the familiar opal ring, that if she had to choose-she would do it again in an instant. There was no question.

There was no choice.

For as much as destiny was uncertain, if Dorcas Meadows did not stand in the room, a single candle lit on the mantle above the fireplace to her side as she stared down the door, it would have been someone else. It could have been James or Lily Potter, hidden away with the fidelius charm. It would have been Sirius Black, the only man she could have ever loved. It might have been Alice or Frank Longbottom, renowned in their own right.

Instead, it was her.

It was Dorcas Katherine Meadows who watched the door even as it seemed to phase out of existence as her wards simply melted away. It was Cass, even as Voldemort appeared in the home that had been charmed with the best that Lily Potter could make, gone over by aurors and professors, by Dorcas herself.

And the truth was, that there was nothing they could have ever done to stop it.

He was less than a man, he was less than human. Somehow, as the years faded, the evil expounded within him, became him. The red pupils that were so serpentine in their appearance, the barely nonexistent nose, the translucent, pallid skin would have caused another one to shudder. Greater men and women than she had cowered in his presence, had fallen to their knees and kissed his robes, kissed his shoes, clutched at an outstretched hand seeking a life that was his to give or deny.

Dorcas Meadows did none of these things. Even as she stood easily with one hand upon the writing desk that only fifteen minutes before had a parcel that contained the answers-or, the answers as they might have been to Cass-she made no reach to grab for her wand. It would have been futile and would only expedite her end. It was not a desperate ploy to buy time. There was no plot. There was no trap.

She had long ago realized that she would die. How, where, and why-she did not know. Now, she did.

Too long had the girl been a menace for the Dark Lord and his plans. Too long had she foiled, step after step, his best and his brightest. Even as she lost a fight, she retained her life and that was the greatest failure of all. She had yet to die and it became more and more evident as the years went on that she had to. There was no great intellect, no mind for planning, that had managed to unravel his carefully laid schemes. The girl was not even a basic rallying point of morale. She was no mother, no auror-no vaunted hero.

And perhaps that was what drew a ghastly chuckle from the Dark Lord as his laughter filled the room in the way that noxious fumes did. As much as one wished to escape them, one could never escape it-the taste or the feel of it, clinging to the body and the throat.

"Look at you now," the once-man hissed in quiet glee. "All alone. All forgotten. No grand plan laid aside to get away, no move to curse me in an attempt to retain your pitiful excuse of a life. Frozen by fear."

And for the longest moment, there was silence. It was nearly peaceful, even as the girl's careful blue eyes watched the androgynous figure. Neither moved. Voldemort, no doubt, had a wand at the ready. Hers was in the open on the table. Both could do wandless magic, of course-but at the end of the day, the basic truth was that she was outmatched, outgunned and out maneuvered. Even a hufflepuff would have understood the dire situation. Or, dire had it not been entirely expected. Maybe no one else saw the inevitable end-but to Dorcas Meadows, it would only conclude in one final act.

Her death.

"No words for me? No grand, parting salvo promising my death at the hands of your dear, beloved mates?" The mocking sneer was grating, Cass noted absently even as she remained still. It was a perplexing sort of calm that had taken over her body. From the moment her door phased and the Dark Lord had entered, brushing aside the weight of her wards as if they had been naught more but slush in the warm and humid September temperatures the blonde girl hadn't bothered to move. Fingers resting so casually on the edge of the desk almost looked as if she could have picked up a quill and proceeded to write another epoch or four. Her left hand rested loosely against her thigh.

"How disappointing," the man frowned. This was not turning out in the way he had expected. Gryffindors. So typical, the lot of them-charging bullishly in with little regard for their own wellbeing. Even the one before him, female as she was, had shown the particular characteristics that had so often earned them loathing and at the same time, begrudging respect. It didn't matter to them how they tangled his plans, simply that they did. And if took their lives to do so, well, then that was unfortunate but they would overcome sucht hings.

Yet, so many people had died. SO many, and yet-so very few at his own hand. It had never come to that. And even his Death Eaters, dark Wizards capable of horrific magics and tortures of both mind and body alike, cowered in his presence. This slip of a girl-not even a quarter of a century old, met him with steady regard.

"Perhaps Lucius was wrong," Voldemort purred, making the first movement since he had entered the home-her home, their home-long moments earlier. "As tactful as he can be, he seems to find such jobs...not to his liking. Tell me. Tell me what I need to know and you may live."

And here, the script broke irreparably. Here, things deviated so horribly that they would never return to the track that anyone would have ever dreamed. Far from falling to her knees, in tears and hysterics, far from bellowing her defiance, Dorcas Meadows did as she had always done in the face of insurmountable odds. She smiled. It was not, granted, a grin or a true expression of any great mirth by any means. Really, it was simply a quirk of the lips, the deepening of a dimple on the left side of her cheek, the wrinkles about her eyes created to form crows feet at their edges. "At the price of lives I would have died thrice over to save," the girl replied levelly. "At the price of all the deaths I have inflected upon your lot. At the price of my honor, my integrity." And here, Dorcas Meadows paused-broke. There was no shattering of her spirit or cracking of her voice, even as the weighted pause in her soft, level reply drove the truth home.

"At the price of everything I have ever loved."

Her denial.

It was strange, Cass wondered. It was perplexing how easily such words came-so fluidly to her lips, unrehearsed as they were. There was never any hope of survival. To be given such an opportunity now, at the close of the thing..it was perplexing. And even then, the girl recalled something long, long ago that she had told both Charlie Flentowock, Minerva McGonagall and Albus Dumbledore as she was reprimanded for her actions of bringing the order to the attention of the students, of rallying those who would be shown the truth.

"I am," she had said quietly, "no great hero. No great mind nor duelist, no great figure to rally behind, no one to adore unquestioningly. No one in their right mind would follow me anywhere-and only a fool would give me leave to do as I will to do what I must." There was a small smile, even then, upon her seventeen year old features that spoke of a soul much older than she had any right to be. "But I will always be there at the end of the thing. I will never walk away, not see it through. For as I may fight during the journey, I will open everything at the close."

And here, then, was hers.

"You are a fool," the Dark Lord hissed. "I offer you absolution for your direct, continued defiance of me, and you throw it in my face for something as petty as love? How...romantic of you. How ignorant. You will die, and nothing you do can stop me from killing those you have sought to keep alive. You might have protected them in life-but in death, you are nothing."

It was the truth-and as the truth, it should have hurt more. Somehow, it should have mattered more that Lord Voldemort pointed out the devastating reality of the world she had created. In life, she could save lives. But being so willing to die did nothing. No one else could do what she had done, there was no other who could fill her place. Even as Dorcas Katherine Meadows had sought to fill the prints of Charlie Flentowock, there was no other who could replace the blonde girl. There was no one left.

No one quite as reckless, quite as good-quite as selfless, quite as quiet , quite as able to keep their mind and heart locked away. For nearly eight years, Dorcas Meadows lived a life for other people and never once had anyone ever gotten a glimpse of the reality she lived. It was what she had created for herself, and it was what she had embraced.

"In death, I will turn to dust and dirt," Cass replied quietly. "I will die-as I must. As I have chosen. And in my death, your hands will never be clean again. You will wonder-always wonder, how could you have changed this. How could you have kept me alive to get the answers you seek-how could you have gotten the truth of me? You will question yourself, Tom Riddle-you will wish you had the answers and you never will. They are beyond your reach. Always. Forever. Even as they are, as I am-as Lily and James Potter will forever be outside of your grasp."

And even as her soul was, too. There was no pain. There was no blood. There was no hesitation, even as that lilted smile relaxed upon Dorcas Meadows's features. Dead at twenty two, the girl had done what so few before her had. There were answers, there was knowledge that the girl possessed-that the Dark Lord had wanted, and yet recklessly and so very carefully she had systematically melted the ice beneath his feet. He could swim better than she, the girl was well aware of it. And yet in doing it, in forcing his hand-she had caused her own death.

On her own terms, just as she had said. She was gone, beyond the reach of such questions, of such uncertainty. Left alone in the room with the body of the girl-child who had defied him so blatantly, so covertly, the Lord Voldemort looked down at the golden sprawl of hair, gleaming in the single light of the candle. There was peace in death-but such a thing he had never desired. There was no need to fear death, to seek it for the peace it could give if there was immortality to be had.

And the man who had been Tom Riddle left, left an empty shell behind. Perhaps it was a conscience he did not know he had or simple temper for being flouted, but there was no Dark Mark flung above the sky. Instead, the skull and snake was etched into the heavy wood of the door-left for whoever would seek her, next.

To that soul, all they would find was an empty husk of she who had been Dorcas Katherine Meadows. Forgotten daughter, lesser twin, quiet friend, sometimes lover.

A woman who had died as she could never have lived, on her own terms. The dignity, the integrity that the girl had struggled with throughout her life was finally hers in death. And all the questions that Cassie Meadows had never answered, all the truth of her that no one else could ever see, too, died with her. For she was simply one among many. One name among hundreds who had died.

But in fifteen years, she would be one of the few who would be recalled, fleetingly, for being killed by Voldemort himself. In fifteen years, though, she would, too, be forgotten to history. Lily and James Potter would be remembered for their sacrifice-for dying to give Harry Potter, life. Frank and Alice Longbottom would be recalled fondly by those few who had known them-and even then, the Auror office would never forget the greatest that had ever been had. Edgar Bones and his family lived on in Amelia and her youngest brother's family.

Some things, though, could never fade. Time would never tarnish the sparking reds and greens and blues of an opal set, framed by diamonds, in gold. Age would never touch the settings of what had been a Meadows family heirloom, given to the only man she had ever loved-the true owner of it, as he had been of her heart.

No one would ever know the truth of it, the truth of her. She was beyond comprehension, a great woman who willingly stepped into the shadow, enduring so that others didn't have to. It was beyond understanding why she suffered so, when such a burden could have been avoided. The world would never comprehend.

And they, too, would never know the whole of it-that she had died with a smile on her face and a ribbon, five years old, twined among her fingers.

_"It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities"_

_-J.K.R._

_"Sacrificing your happiness for the happiness of the ones you love, is by far, the truest type of love."_

_-Unknown_

_

* * *

_A/N: Well, that completes what I have for this little drabble! There may be more scenes that get added in and shuffled around. It really depends on the mood. Dorcas Katherine Meadows (D.K.M.) is a temperamental creature at best, and she gets written when she damn well wants to!

I hope this story managed to touch you as much as writing it touched me. It answered the question "What kind of person _was_ she?" She was a woman who loved and lived to the best of her abilities-and died for what she believed in, in the hopes that others would be able to live in the world that they sought to create.


End file.
